style="font-size:15px;"> Nothing there.
Rob was alone in the head man’s chamber. He was the head man now, as he’d been raised to be for twenty-six summers.
He stretched, scratched an itch on his back and reached for his boots.
Snow and frost had lingered, but this morning, he felt a softness in the air. Spring. Lambing time. Time for him to be a shepherd as well as a warrior, riding the valley to be sure the flock was well tended.
Last year, he had ridden beside his father.
Up and dressed, he foraged the kitchen, searching for a leftover bannock to stuff in his bag. His sister used to do that for him, for all of them. Cooked the food, washed and cleaned, kept everything in order until a few months ago, when she deserted them for that untrustworthy husband of hers.
Soon, they’d be harrying him to find a wife. Some woman who would fuss at him for riding out alone. Danger was not gone with the snow, but he would be back before dark and no one would dare a daylight raid on a sunny spring day.
Besides, he preferred the solitude. Alone, he’d have at least a few moments when no one was looking at him, waiting for his word to be the final one.
He walked through the gate and surveyed the ponies grazing outside the walls, glad to leave the tower behind. He whistled and Felloun trotted over, ready to ride. In truth, Rob felt more at home on the horse than anywhere else. The ground beneath the pony’s hooves, the land itself was home to him. He was part of it—hills, moss, rocks and soil. Kin to the earth, he sometimes thought, and not to men at all.
But that was the way of all Brunsons, since the First. A Brunson was of the land. Of this land.
The other half of him, the half some men found in mates, that half was in these hills. None would force them asunder.
He reached the closest family before the sun was high. Bleating sheep milled about and a well-trained dog tidied the edges of the flock, responding to his master’s whistle.
Rob nodded to the man. ‘All well?’ Not to suggest Fingerless Joe needed help. Simply to be here if he did.
‘Aye.’
A new lamb, wobbly on his legs, stayed close to its mother.
Rob swallowed. ‘The little one. Strong enough to move to high land come June?’
The man shrugged. ‘He will or he won’t.’
Rob looked away, towards hills that blurred before his eyes. It was the way of things. Weakness meant death. For man or beast.
He looked back at Joe, clear-eyed again. ‘Any sign of Storwicks?’
Another shake of the head.
‘Next week, then.’ Rob pushed a knee into his horse’s side and the beast turned, obedient.
No sign of them that Fingerless Joe might see.
Rob would look for himself.
By midday, Rob was high above the valley where a hoof-worn track wound across the hills and over the border, one he knew well.
As did the Storwicks.
He rode across the border and back, looking for fresh horse droppings.
The path was clear, so he returned to his side of the hill, dismounted, stretched out on the ground and gazed down on the valley that was his. Clear, this day. Clear as he’d seldom seen. He could see all the way to the tower, thrusting up strong from the greening grass.
Tempting to a Storwick, aye, but there was no weakness there. Not now.
Something shifted. The wind. A scent. A sound. He stiffened, alert, and turned his head.
Above him and to his left, sat a woman, silent and stiff, eyes fixed on him warily as if he were a Storwick.
He fashed himself for not looking carefully before leaving his horse. What if he’d been surprised by the enemy?
Neither spoke, looking.
Dark hair tumbled across her shoulders, but he would not call her beautiful. At least, not from this angle. Eyes and lips fought for control of her face. Her nose was too strong. Her chin too sharp. She looked vaguely familiar, but he had seen every far-flung Brunson at one time or another. Still, he could not summon which branch of the family was hers.
‘You’re far from home,’ he began, still trying to place her. The Tait cousin lived nearest, but he had no daughters.
She drew herself up into a crouch, like a wary animal ready to run. ‘Nay so far.’
He raised and lowered his shoulders, sorry he had frightened her. He motioned his head uphill, towards the border. ‘Storwicks are no more than five miles away.’
Not taking her eyes from his, she stood slowly and took a step back, as if nearness to the enemy had just occurred to her. The blush on her cheek paled. ‘Have I crossed the border then?’
‘Nay.’ He rose to his feet, uncomfortable that she stood while he was stretched out on the grass. What was the strangeness in her accent? ‘It’s just over there.’
Her eyes widened. She turned to look over her shoulder. Then ran.
That was when he recognised her.
Stella Storwick didn’t look back, praying for her feet to run faster.
But the Brunson kept coming, strong as a charging ram, trampling the grass behind her. Then he was in front of her, cutting off her escape as if she were no more than an unruly ewe.
She dodged. Left. Right. Thinking she could confuse him.
He was a broad man. She could be quicker. More steps, her skirt and the grass holding her back. If she crossed the border, she would be safe …
But next she knew, he grabbed her arm, whirled her around and both of them tumbled to the ground. She on her back, pressed to earth, he straddling her legs.
She lifted a clawed hand to scratch his eyes, but he caught her wrists and held her arms tight against the dirt without effort. Even when she shut her eyes against him, he surrounded her, warm and smelling of leather.
‘You’re Storwick.’ He did not ask a question.
She opened her eyes. His were brown. And murderous.
‘And you’re Brunson.’ Close now, she knew him, the man she had seen near half a year ago at Truce Day. Fool she was, not to have recognised him immediately.
Not just a Brunson. The Brunson.
A flash of heat crackled through her body. Hatred, no doubt.
He was one of the Black Brunsons. Broad of shoulder and brow, dark of hair and eye. Yes, he had the brown eyes that marked all his cursed clan.
‘You’ll not take me.’ She braced herself,
